


Quiet Riot

by CoffeeAndTin



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Illya, Illya Kuryakin - Freeform, Illya Whump, Napoleon Solo - Freeform, Whump, character injury, descriptions of violence and injury, mentions of alexander waverly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 22:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12263145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndTin/pseuds/CoffeeAndTin
Summary: Illya and Napoleon get into and out of trouble.





	Quiet Riot

**Author's Note:**

> I'd written this for a whump exchange on tumblr a while back and finally got around to shuttling it over here to AO3. There's violence, but I don't think it's anything that really exceeds canon.

Illya sat in the cool darkness of the old hotel room. Across the street, a light came on in the third floor room that he was tasked with watching over.  
Early, Illya thought.  
Though they were only yards from each other, the hotels could not have been more different. The hotel across the street from Illya was new, and bordering on ostentatious. The hotel Illya occupied was termed “historical,” and lacked a functioning elevator. The entire village was like that, though. It was all either old, or new. No in between.  
He watched as Solo entered the room across the way. The American checked the room before ushering in a woman. She was not exceedingly lovely, but even through his binoculars Illya could see that she had intellect and grace.  
Bait, intended to lure out her one-time lover with promises of information. It was relatively straightforward.  
He switched on his equipment and put his headphones on.  
Ilya watched through the binoculars as Napoleon poured a drink for himself.  
“Care for a drink?” The rich timbre of Napoleon’s voice came through the headset.  
The woman declined by shaking her head silently and smoothing the skirt of her dress. Napoleon nodded, flashed a smile, and rested the small of his back against a chest of drawers.  
“I understand you have information for me.”  
“For your organization, yes,” she replied.   
Her voice had something of an English lilt to it.  
She moved her long auburn hair onto her left shoulder before reaching behind herself to unclasp the gold chain that hung around her neck. The attached locket was pulled from beneath the neckline and she looped the chain around her delicate fingers and extended the bauble to Solo.  
“Like I told you, I-”  
She stopped abruptly. Crimson bloomed at the base of her throat. Her eyes looked puzzled. Her mouth opened, as though to ask a question, but it went unasked. Napoleon caught her body as it crumpled. Illya didn’t miss the expression on his partner’s face. The caddish façade fell away. There was surprise, concern and anger all the span of seconds as he lowered the body to the floor and out of Illya’s sight. Illya couldn’t afford to rush directly to the other hotel though. From that trajectory, the shot could only have come from directly above him.  
Illya slammed the binoculars on the table and hastily removed the headphones, and stood. He ejected the magazine from his gun, and made certain it was full. He ran a hand over the hilt of the knife that was clipped to the back of his belt, assuring himself of its presence then exited the room. The hallway was all silence and soft lighting. He headed for the north stairwell, as it was closer to the exit that led to the parking lot.  
The thick red carpet deadened any sound that Illya’s footfalls might have made. The stairwell lacked the warmth of the hallway, but it was equally quiet. It was easy to hear someone hurriedly moving down the wooden stairway. A man reached the landing. Illya had only to see a knife on the man’s belt and gun in a holster before he launched himself at the assassin. Illya jammed his forearm into the man’s throat, pinning him against the wall. He was a full head shorter than Illya, and probably about half a decade younger. Though the trapped man was baby-faced, his soft features contorted into an expression of rage when the initial surprise had worn off.  
The younger man drew his gun and aimed it for Illya’s belly. Illya relinquished his hold on his enemy’s throat in favor of gripping the gun with both hands and avoiding the two shots that were fired in quick succession. In the back of his mind, Illya registered the thhp thhp of silenced rounds. He drove his knee upward into his opponent’s stomach, eliciting a satisfying oof.  
Illya skillfully switched his grip and wrenched the gun away, but the younger killer was quick. He unsheathed his knife and cut upward, catching Illya from just above his navel, to the base of his ribcage on his right side. The blade must have been viscously sharp; the separation of his flesh and the slick warmth on his abdomen was all that registered with Illya. The assassin pressed his advantage, going for Illya’s throat with the knife. Even in the dull light of the stairwell, Illya could see that his own blood stained the blade. Illya deflected that assault, but the next strike connected with his wounded side.  
Illya grunted, but otherwise gave no indication of the pain it caused. The assassin switched the knife from his left hand to his right, and with a brutal backward stroke sought out Illya’s throat again. Illya caught him by the arm, and slammed his foot into the younger man’s leg, sending him to his knees.  
Thhp!  
Illya let the body slump to the ground, and tucked the gun into his own waistband. Without concern for the wound on his side, Illya tracked back into the hallway. With a flourish of white, he swiped a towel from a housekeeping trolley before reentering his room, soundlessly pulling the door shut and locking it. He pulled his shirt up and grimaced at the freely bleeding wound. He used the towel and several strips from the bed sheet to secure the laceration. It would have to do until he and Solo were free and clear. Illya didn’t bother gathering the equipment. He was relatively certain Waverly would find it negligible enough. He pulled on his dark coat and gloves, and left.  
In the wee hours of the morning it was still dark, but Illya didn’t have far to go to find Solo. The American waited in the bleak little alleyway between the ancient hotel and the shopping center that overshadowed it. He stepped from the shadows, just enough for Illya to see him. Wordlessly, Illya followed his partner down the alleyway until they reached the car on the other side.  
“I suppose we should be on our way,” Napoleon said; suave and composed, as though he hadn’t just witnessed a woman’s assassination.  
Illya made a sound in the back of his throat that indicated his assent as he moved toward the unremarkable sedan.  
“You good?” Solo asked, not missing the fact his partner was moving slower than usual.  
“Never better,” Illya replied, his gaze downcast.  
Solo raised a dark eyebrow before getting into the driver’s side of the car and starting the engine. Illya got in afterward, and his grimace did not escape Solo’s notice.  
“Can I assume the assassin was…dispatched?”  
“You can,” Illya said. His voice hitched as he tried his best to ignore the pain in his side as he put pressure on it with both hands. “Though we’ll have to inform Waverly of our failure when we get to the rendezvous point.”  
“Not necessarily,” Napoleon said as his keen eyes searched the car’s mirrors before pulling away from the curb. “Besides, you should really avail yourself of the medical assistance on our transport.”  
Illya breathed out slowly through his nose.  
“He didn’t quite manage to eviscerate me,” Illya said.  
His words more were rye, but they were also rushed, and more thickly accented than they usually would have been.  
Solo grinned, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Illya was entirely too pale; and the former thief wondered just how bad the wound was.  
Near enough to evisceration, he guessed.  
“Our mission wasn’t a complete failure,” Solo said, daring to put more pressure on the accelerator. “She kept some very valuable information in the locket that is now in my right breast pocket.”  
Illya nodded.  
After a few miles, they entered the stillness of the forest that surrounded the mismatched town. Illya could see the grey beginnings of dawn on the horizon. He took solace in the fact the rendezvous wasn’t far.  
“And when-”  
Napoleon’s words were cut short as a vehicle slammed into the left, front side of the car, spinning them off the road, and into a ditch.  
In the ensuing stillness, Solo breathed air out through his teeth as he pressed the fingers of his right hand to his temple. Though his gloves were black leather (and handsomely stitched, at that) he could still see that his fingertips came away wet with blood.  
“I hope,” Solo said as he swept his black hair off of his forehead, “that they are insured.”  
Solo looked over to the passenger’s side when there was no response from Illya. The Russian man’s eyes were wide, his skin was pale, and his gun was drawn. Illya pulled the trigger of the silenced weapon twice with lethal accuracy. The only sound, save for the whisper of the gun, was the breaking of glass. Napoleon turned to see two men fall to the ground.  
“Right,” Solo said, finding his own weapon under his stylish overcoat. “Bigger problems.”  
Ignoring the pain in his head, Napoleon exited the car, circled to the passenger side and opened the door. Headlights from another car were quickly approaching, and Napoleon extended a hand to his partner. Illya declined. Using the car for support, he rose up with his arm wrapped around his side. Illya let out a small, pained sound. It was so quiet and brief that Napoleon could almost convince himself that he had imagined it. Almost.  
“Not that you wouldn’t make an exceptional chauffer, Cowboy,” Illya managed as they were bathed in the headlights of the approaching vehicle.  
“Over the river and through the woods, then?”  
Illya’s jaw clenched as he nodded. Then he loped his way into the tree line at Solo’s side. Once they were twenty or so yards back, they halted, each with his back against a tree.  
“I count six,” Napoleon said.  
Another nod from Illya.  
“It’s about another mile and a half to the pickup point.”  
Even in the deep gray of the foggy morning, their enemies were easy enough to identify. Their movements were loud and predictably coordinated. Guns raised, Napoleon and Illya each found a target, and fired. A pair of gunmen went down and the U.N.C.L.E agents changed their positions, moving as quickly and quietly as they could through the fog and snow. They stopped, perhaps twenty feet apart, ready to repeat the process. Napoleon took out another target with speed and precision. Before he moved, he looked to see Illya steady himself against a tree before turning. Illya fired. Close by, in the mirk, someone cried out in pain. Perhaps not a lethal shot.  
In the quiet, Napoleon could hear their pursuers gaining on them. Napoleon gestured to Illya.  
Let’s go!  
Napoleon watched as Illya lurched away from the tree and stumbled. He righted himself and continued onward. There was nothing of the Russian’s usual wolf-like grace as he moved, and Napoleon’s heart plummeted when Illya’s foot caught a root.  
Illya cursed his clumsiness as he landed hard on his hands and knees. There was more pain, and a fresh, oily tickle at his side. His makeshift bandage was now far more precarious. His gun hadn’t fallen far. He grunted as he reached for it and ignored the way his hand seemed to tremble. Once he had the gun he tried to lift himself, but found that it was difficult. Brisk footsteps came from Illya’s side and he was suddenly being hauled up by the collar of his coat.  
He began to struggle, but a whispered, “It’s me!” made him think better of it. Illya slouched against a tree, but they were quickly disrupted when Solo hissed in pain and grasped his left arm.  
A man ran toward them and Illya raised his gun and fired, hitting his target above the right temple. Another gone.  
Before the two could continue, the bark above Illya’s head burst outward. The next round found its way into Illya’s right shoulder. Pressure and so much more more pain.  
The nameless flunky quickly and unwisely advanced on them. Napoleon wasted no time in attacking. He forced the man’s gun hand away and struck upward, breaking the man’s nose. Illya saw a flash of something primal and righteous in Solo’s eyes. The scuffle ended quickly in Napoleon’s favor. There was the sound of a silenced round, and then nothing.  
Napoleon smiled winningly at Illya as he walked back to him.  
“Do you think I’ll get reimbursed for this suit?” Napoleon asked as he prodded the coat sleeve’s ruined fabric.  
“Difficult to say,” Illya said. He huffed out a breath that he hoped passed for laughter as he tried his best to keep pressure on his new injury. The shot had been a through-and-through. “Didn’t Waverly tell you to pack clothing that is less expensive?”  
“I seem to remember him saying something to that effect,” Napoleon confessed as he stepped closer to Illya and made to check the fresh wound, but Illya pushed off of the tree trunk.  
“No need,” he said, as he started eastward yet again.  
Napoleon made a doubtful sound, and Illya was relatively certain he heard him say something about a “stubborn Russian,” but he focused on putting one foot in front of the other rather than reply.  
“Um…partner?”  
Illya turned a baleful gaze over his shoulder, only to stop dead in his tracks. Solo stood with his hands raised in the air, looking more annoyed than threatened when the last of their pursuers levelled a gun at his head.  
“Drop it,” the man said, grinning.  
Illya complied. Mirroring Solo’s posture, he made no move for the gun in his waistband. He sized up the man. Stocky, and a few inches shorter than Solo. Close-cropped hair and a nose that had been broken on at least several occasions. A smile that was as exaggerated as it was unbecoming.  
“Our orders were to kill you, but I think my superiors would be very interested to know who sent you. No reason we can’t be friendly.”  
“Oh, good,” Illya said. “A henchman who thinks for himself.”  
Illya saw his cold humor reflected in Solo’s expression.  
“Doesn’t look like you’re long for this world, anyway,” the man said, the corners of his mouth dipping. “Might just leave you and take your friend, here.”  
The man moved his aim from Napoleon to Illya. Apparently he took exception to Illya’s words. Illya, for his part, remained silent and unimpressed.  
“Good partners are hard to come by,” Napoleon informed him.  
“And besides,” Illya added. “There would be that much more paperwork involved.”  
The gunman chuckled at this, and Illya wondered if he was more a clown, and less a henchman. Napoleon took the opportunity to grab his arm, and with stunning speed, he threw him to the ground. A shot fired, and went wide of Illya. The gun fell away. Moving quicker than Illya would have given him credit for, the man quickly gained the upper hand, and began strangling Solo.  
There was no twitch of Illya’s fingers, or blinding rage. Just motion and instinct.  
Illya closed the distance between them. Without regard for his own wounds, Illya barreled into their enemy, knocking him clear of Solo. Illya’s fist connected with his face several times before a finger struck upward into the bullet wound in Illya’s shoulder. Illya’s vision blurred, but he recovered quickly, fastening a vicelike grip around the man’s throat. The man’s face went red, and his eyes bulged. Eventually, he went still.  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Illya was aware of Napoleon calling his name.  
It wasn’t until Solo crouched in front of him, and put a tentative, manicured hand on his shoulder that Illya came back to himself. He sagged, and released the air violently from his lungs.  
“We do still have a flight to catch, Peril,” Napoleon said, his voice calm and clear as he proffered a hand.  
Not even Illya was obstinate enough to refuse the hand up.  
They slogged their way through the mud and snow until they reached the appointed clearing.  
No helicopter.  
“We’re too early,” Napoleon said as he watched Illya lean against a birch tree.  
Illya’s pupils were ominously wide. His too-pale skin was muddied; and his face and blond hair were slick with sweat. Illya kept his hands on the bullet wound. Though his breathing was measured and disciplined, the way Illya tapped the back of his head on the tree trunk was far more telling. Napoleon approached his friend as he took off his fashionable coat and folded it.  
He was confident he would be batted away, but nonetheless, Napoleon draped the coat over Illya’s wounded shoulder.  
“Here,” Napoleon said as his hands hovered over Illya’s injury.  
Illya nodded slowly, and moved his own hands downward to the laceration on his torso.  
Illya’s jaw clenched even tighter, and the bob of his Adam’s apple bespoke agony; but he didn’t make a sound when Napoleon put pressure on the entrance and exit wounds.  
Napoleon willed their transport to arrive. Soon.  
Illya’s body felt raw, and cold, but the rosy morning light and the lingering fog made everything else seem unbearably soft in his estimation. A mostly forgotten tune –a lullaby his mother used to sing to him –played fleetingly in his head. Something about a stranger prowling outside…and night birds singing. It was there and gone. A small, animal noise came from the back of his throat, and he frowned deeply.  
If Solo had heard him, he had the decency not to mention it.  
Time passed, and Illya’s head bobbed.  
Napoleon very conspicuously cleared his throat.  
Stay awake, Illya scolded himself as he swept a broad palm over his damp face.  
Birds’ morning songs and his own breathing were the only noises Illya could hear until he realized he could also make out the sound of an approaching helicopter. Solo’s relieved expression told Illya that he wasn’t imaging it. The two watched as the craft sank slowly to the ground, its descent interminable.  
Illya shrugged off Solo’s assistance, and used the trunk of the tree to steady himself before walking into the clearing several paces behind his partner. Just a hundred more yards. His feet tracked gracelessly through the snow. Ninety more yards. His breaths were shorter, more ragged. Eighty…  
One step, then another, then…he peered downward with puzzled blue eyes when his feet refused to go any further.  
Move, he growled at himself, trying to ignore the flutter of panic he felt at his own body’s disobedience. Move!  
“Illya?”  
Illya’s eyes wandered upward to meet Napoleon’s.  
“I-”  
His knees buckled; and his body went slack as his eyes rolled backward. The force of his body striking the ground was lost on Illya. Cursing, Napoleon sank down beside Illya’s fallen form. He was hesitant to touch Illya, but inaction was out of the question. He reapplied pressure to the wound and waited for the helicopter’s crew to help.  
They took off as quickly as they could. Napoleon was relieved when he heard one of the crew mention something about a friendly medical facility nearby. His head throbbed as he held gauze against his forehead. It would do until he could be seen to. He watched them maneuver his partner’s long, indifferent body as they clipped away the clothing that had since become tacky with blood. The wounds were as ugly as Napoleon had imagined, but he took comfort in the quiet detachment of the medics as they worked.  
Amid them, there was a strangled cry, and uncoordinated movement from their patient. With week limbs, Illya struggled upright, despite protests. He searched the compartment with wild, unfocused eyes, wanting nothing more than to get away from the pain and the hands and the…  
Illya’s gaze landed on Solo. The thief’s face was streaked with blood, and his hair dark hair was unkempt. He met Illya’s gaze and nodded his head.  
We’re fine.  
There was nothing glib there. No condescension. They were fine, if a little worse for wear. Illya blinked, and reigned himself in. He let the medics work, and he drifted.


End file.
